


Shoulds, Mights and Legacies

by CrystallizedTears



Category: Julie and The Phantoms (TV)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:01:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27142843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrystallizedTears/pseuds/CrystallizedTears
Summary: Luke, Alex and Reggie left to go get streetdogs. That, he knew.They didn't come back. That, he found out.The reason why came later.And how he dealt with it came even later than that.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 61





	Shoulds, Mights and Legacies

**Author's Note:**

> So, I have a new obsession. In ten days, I've watched this show three times. Bobby/Trevor seems so tragic to me, and I've spent ages thinking about how he must have felt finding out about the guy's death and how everything happened after and why he became Trevor.
> 
> And thus, a fic was born.
> 
> Quick sidenote: I'm not American, and I know next to nothing about making music ... I'm going off various shows and films. If something doesn't make sense/work properly, please let me know so I can correct! And yes, I did finish and publish this at 3am.

They were late.

They were _very_ late.

Bobby couldn’t help but pace the length of the hallway once, twice, three times as the minutes passed. One minute became two, then five, then thirty.

Half an hour became one, and a little after the nine o’clock mark that should have signalled their victorious performance on stage, he had to admit it.

His band had bailed on him.

Tonight, of all nights. _The_ night. The Orpheum would have been their biggest show to date – it would have _made_ them. If they performed anywhere near as well as they had at soundcheck, they’d be signed within minutes of stepping from the stage, on their way to a multi-million record deal.

But they’d bailed.

The crew knew it too, calling on their next act early. Any chance Sunset Curve had had at performing was gone, even if the boys showed up late.

Completely, utterly _gone_.

A snarl of rage ripped from him, and it took all he had not to punch the wall in frustration. This – this performance, the future it would have meant – had been _everything_ to them. To all four of them. Especially those three.

For Alex, it was a permanent escape from his uncaring parents. For Luke, it was a chance to show his parents that his passion had a future. For Reggie, it was a chance to make life that much easier.

And they bailed.

When he emerged from backstage, the frustration plain on his face, it was to the waitress offering him a wry smile and a glass of soda. He’d rather go for something a little stronger, but he knew the chances of bribing her for that were slim. It would just have to wait until he got home and could raid his parents’ fridge.

He definitely needed alcohol tonight.

And if those boys showed their faces …

‘I’m sure they have a good reason.’ Rose whipped her rag from her shoulder, wiping down the place next to his, removing the rings left behind by glasses and dropping the bottles into the disposal. ‘They seemed serious about tonight’s gig. Something must have happened that held them up.’

He barely held back his snort. Nothing, _nothing_ , could have been more important than tonight. Not a single damn thing should have taken priority over their breakout show.

‘Listen. I know I don’t know any of you, but I know passion when I see it. Your friends have it in spades.’ She shrugged, flipping the rag back into its place. ‘Nothing would have held them from performing tonight without good reason.’

‘I’d love to know what that reason was,’ he muttered, staring at the fizzing drink in front of him. ‘I could kill them for this, you know?’

‘You’ll sit and listen to them,’ she corrected with a raised eyebrow. ‘And the four of you will work as a band and earn your place back onto that stage.’

He freaking hoped so.

Until then … well, if they didn’t show up in the next half hour, he had to find a way to lug their gear back to the studio. Yes, he could get it in the van, but it was Alex’s stupid drumset, so Alex should be doing the heavy lifting.

Where the hell were they?

‘Hey.’ Rose was back ten minutes later, as he lowered the now empty glass back to the bar. ‘You need something a bit stronger.’ She slid a fresh drink in front of him, looking identical to the one he’d just finished, but when he took the first swig he could taste the vodka. ‘On the house.’

That drink went down a _lot_ smoother than the night did.

***

By midnight, he had the van loaded with the help of a few members of the crew, and the boys still hadn’t shown back up. To Bobby, this wasn’t just a delay anymore. This was a deliberate act of abandonment.

They didn’t give a damn, did they?

Slamming the van door shut, he stalked around to the driver’s seat. He needed to get out of there, dump the stuff at the studio, and head to bed. Maybe, if he could sleep off the night, he might be marginally less angry in the morning.

Keyword: _might_.

He wasn’t convinced, and with his jaw clenched, he threw the van into gear, peeling out of the alleyway and turning down the all-too-familiar streets to home.

The diversion around the police barricade which delayed him an extra ten minutes only served to annoy him more.

***

The boys didn’t show up at the studio as he unpacked their gear.

They didn’t show up as he pushed the doors shut.

They didn’t show up as he drove off, headed to his place, too annoyed to even consider crashing on the settee until one of them deigned to show their face again.

***

After a normal gig, he didn’t get up until at least ten in the morning.

After a failed gig at the Orpheum, being abandoned by his bandmates, and having no explanation whatsoever given, he would probably have slept in until the afternoon.

His mother didn’t let that happen though.

No, she barged into his room nine, yanking the covers off of his sleeping form and dropping something on his chest. With a groan, he pressed his spare pillow over his face.

He didn’t particularly want to start the day. Especially not if it wasn’t to one of the boys coming to apologise for standing him up.

‘Robert.’ She never did use his nickname. ‘Robert, get up. You need to see this.’

No, he really didn’t. Whatever it was, it could wait until one of his bandmates explained the night before. That, more than anything, was his priority.

She pulled at the pillow, and he resisted … for two pulls, before giving in. If his mother wanted his pillow, she’d take it. He’d long ago learned that ignoring her for too long was a bad idea. As frustrated as he was, he didn’t want to deal with her bad mood on top of his own.

‘Robert. Read the damn paper.’ His mother stood over him, waiting while he blinked in the morning light, trying to find his bearings. ‘Why didn’t you say anything last night?’

‘I got in at two in the morning, mom.’ He lifted one arm, rubbing at his face. ‘You hate me waking you up in the middle of the night.’

‘I would have made an exception.’ She dropped to the bed, her weight making the bed sag at his waist. ‘Honey, you should have woken me.’

He sighed, letting his arm drop back to the bed. ‘Why? You’d have just told me off.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Can I go back to sleep now?’

She shook her head. ‘You act like you’re not upset. What happened between you four last night?’

Oh, goodie. He didn’t particularly want to get in to it with his mother, who never usually cared much for talk about the band. Instead, he pushed himself up, letting the paper she’d dropped on him slide down to his lap. ‘Can we not?’

‘I think we need to. The papers already have hold of the story. Wouldn’t it be better to talk about it now, before the press try to get hold of you?’

_What?_ ‘What story? Why would the press want me?’

Giving in, her grabbed the paper, shaking out the fold until he could stare at the front page.

The words jumped out at him, despite the small space they had near the bottom of the page.

_Tragedy on Sunset Boulevard: missing teen found too late._

‘What?’ His eyes jumped up to his mother, who, he realised for the first time, watched him with sadness in her eyes. ‘Mom, what is this?’

She didn’t answer, just gestured for him to continue reading. Heart beginning to pound, he hesitantly lowered his gaze again.

_Tragedy struck on Sunset Boulevard last night, with authorities called to a tucked-away side alley at seven thirty pm to attend to a report of a severe medical incident. Once on the scene, paramedics found the unresponsive teenage Luke Patterson, reported missing in December, along with two of his friends. Despite rushing the teen to hospital, emergency staff were unable to revive any of the teenagers. The investigation into the cause of their death is ongoing._

‘No.’ No, this was fake. It had to be.

Luke wasn’t dead. If Luke was dead … that meant … Reggie, and Alex, too. While Bobby had been cursing them out for abandoning them, they’d been dying in some alleyway.

No, they hadn’t been. They couldn’t have been.

‘No,’ he repeated, dropping the paper. ‘ _No_ , they’re not _dead_.’

This was a joke. The boys – they’d cooked this up to try and excuse their absence from the show. Hadn’t they?

_Hadn’t they?_

***

They hadn’t.

It was real.

If he hadn’t been forced to believe the paper when he saw the actual news at eleven, he’d have had to believe it when he went over to the studio and found Alex’s parents staring at the space with tears in their eyes.

They’d never truly been happy with Alex’s life choices, but now that said life was gone – well, now they clearly cared. At the very least, pretended to in public. So did Reggie’s parents, when he saw them at the funerals a week later.

And Luke’s parents – well, they were the worst of the three sets. They’d actually given a damn about their son, even if they hadn’t seen that he could make a future from music.

Luke’s funeral was the worst. His parents had spared no expense. Whatever money they had, they poured into it, with elaborate floral arrangements, a beautiful coffin, and gorgeous, fancy clothes to bury their son in.

By the time they’d thrown their handfuls of dirt into the open grave, he was battling back tears of his own as he watched Mr and Mrs Patterson clutching each other, openly sobbing.

They’d lost their son twice.

***

‘This was going to be amazing.’

Bobby stood before the stage in the Orpheum, Rose the waitress at his side. He’d rocked up straight after Luke’s funeral, still in his tux, and she’d taken pity on him when she saw him leaning against the stage door. ‘Our make or break.’

‘You would have made it,’ she said, offering him a small smile. ‘You guys were amazing.’

‘I should have gone with them.’ He swallowed, trying to ignore the pit in his stomach. ‘I lied to you that day, and they died for it.’

The autopsies had come back the day before, and his mom had managed to get the information out of Reggie’s parents. Severe internal damage to the oesophagus and stomach, caused by ingested acid. Based on where they’d been found and Bobby’s comment to the police when they finally got around to talking to him, it was surmised that they’d got their street dogs from one of the shady vendors with poor hygiene standards who’d accidentally caused the hotdogs to become toxic.

They’d died in pain, in some back alley with a vendor who’d abandoned the scene for fear of jail time or losing his dodgy food business.

The street dogs he’d declined, claiming to be vegetarian to impress the beautiful woman he’d met – they’d killed his friends.

How was he supposed to digest that thought?

If he’d been with them, maybe, just maybe, he’d have had the common sense to speak out about buying from whatever shoddy set up was there and directed them to a better – and safer – vendor. Maybe they’d have eaten and lived, and the four of them could have come back to the Orpheum and life continued on that upwards trend.

Maybe, maybe, _maybe_.

He was really starting to hate that word.

‘It’s not your fault.’ Rose’s hand curled around his upper arm, pulling him until his attention snapped from the stage – the last time he’d properly _seen_ them – to her.

She’d distracted him, kept his focus as he attempted to impress her instead of being with his friends. Wasn’t she equally to blame?

No, no, she wasn’t. She had nothing to do with it. He should have had the willpower to ignore her, or his friends should have had the sense to avoid that particular seller.

Should, should, _should_.

So many maybes. So many shoulds.

Maybes and shoulds wouldn’t bring them back, though.

Nothing could bring them back.

Not maybes, not shoulds, not wishes.

Nothing.

***

It took him seven years to pick up a guitar again. Seven years, and a move from the house he had memories of his friends in. As soon as he turned eighteen, he’d packed up the car his parents brought him out of sympathy and drove halfway across the country for college. Anything to get away from the memories, the thoughts.

One degree later, and a further three years of space, he drove back, getting a part-time job in a local convenience store and finally picking up the guitar.

He still recalled every chord, every lyric, of the songs Luke had written and Sunset Curve had performed. Every single note was etched in his brain. But time and distance had helped. The songs no longer hurt him the way they had right after the deaths.

Now, they were a reminder of better times. Of a friendship that had meant everything, of a hope for a future.

If the boys couldn’t have a future … he’d just have to have it for them, wouldn’t he?

The problem was being referred to as “Bobby from Sunset Curve, what a shame about his bandmates”. He’d heard the whispers the few times he’d introduced himself to someone and told them about the band.

So, he did the next rational thing.

He changed his name.

His parents had named him Robert Trevor Wilson. Everyone who knew Sunset Curve had simply known “Bobby”. Dropping his first name gave him the anonymity to start again. To pick up his guitar, find some of their old music, and record a new demo.

Just one. Just _Crooked Teeth_ – he remembered the fun Luke had had writing that one – and then sending it off to scouts.

It hardly surprised him that they, and the producers they led him to, liked it or any of the other songs he gave them. Luke’s talent had been extraordinary. His passion jumped from the page, his skill bringing notes to life in a beautiful melody no matter what he’d written.

The only catch, once “Trevor” had found himself ready to negotiate a deal, was that if he wanted to give the boys the recognition they deserved … he’d be right back to “Bobby”. Back to being the tragic, sole survivor of a band cut down at their prime. Fewer and fewer people spoke about them, but if he dropped their names, the story would come back again. And again and again.

He’d never escape it.

So, he didn’t mention them. Their music would live on, even if their names wouldn’t, except as a tale of caution.

***

He used most of the songs he remembered on his first album. When it outperformed its expected numbers, he nearly cried.

They’d had the talent. They’d had the chance. This moment proved it. Sunset Curve could have been great – the next Beatles, even. They could have had anything, done anything, been famous and rich and have a legacy that stretched so far.

Two more of Luke’s songs made it onto his second album, but the rest, he wrote himself.

This one didn’t do as well. He’d never had the talent, really. That had been entirely Luke, and the melodies – well, he was a rhythm guitarist, but he didn’t have the same sense for a beat as Alex did. Alex could take Luke’s words and ideas and turn them into an actual piece of music. Reggie could then add the depth to it with his bass, bringing the music itself to life.

Add in Luke’s words … they’d had magic.

They had.

He didn’t, not by himself.

He had one last song in his memory by the time his third album released, once again underperforming.

_Unsaid Emily_.

Luke’s apology to his mother.

But he wouldn’t touch it. Couldn’t. Not only would using it mean he could be found out, should Emily Patterson ever hear it – unlikely, but one never knew – but it was Luke’s song.

The only person who should _ever_ sing _Unsaid Emily_ was Luke. No Luke meant no song. It was as simple as that.

He did feel bad, though. The Pattersons would never get the closure he could give them. He might have known the song, but he didn’t have the original lyrics. No, those were in Luke’s notebook, which had been left in the studio. The studio attached to Alex’s house – which Alex’s parents had sold months after his death, and had then been resold to another couple about a year before his daughter had been born.

To Rose, specifically, who he’d kept in contact with. She might not have known the boys, but she’d been there on the day his life changed. He’d never forget that.

He didn’t even try to ask her, though. Even if by some miracle their gear was still in that studio, he wouldn’t know where to look. And he didn’t particularly want to, either. He’d never forget his band, but he didn’t want to stir up any more memories about them.

Being in a room with any of their things would be a step too much. It was one thing to record their music, to keep their legacy alive, but to read through their words, their plans …

No, he couldn’t do that.

_Unsaid Emily_ remained untouched.

Their names were forgotten.

But their music lived on.


End file.
